lII.—AN ARRIVAL

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 31, 10 December 1897, Page 25

lII.— AN ARRIVAL

How many there arc who passing grand mansions look longingly at them, and wish that some good fairy would suddenly open the carven door, and, tossing its golden key into their hand, say : -Come in. come in ! This is //our house • a trifle better than you deserve, indeed, but yours btill by order of the Queen o' Wishes !"' Yet, ah ! who knows how much sorrow may dwell within the grandest palace, how much joy within the humblest cottn^e !

Supervising his business interests in Colorado, Mr. Marvin had not seen, and scarcely heard from his family since their return from Europe ; and when he beheld for the first time the marble residence in Washington— whose erection ihad been a caprice of his wife's, to gratify which every nerve had been strained— he ceased to wonder at the exorbitant demands for money lately made upon him. With many emotions depicted on his worn, deeply-lined face he stood a moment contemplating its exterior, so heavy with tasteless superfluity of adornment ; then ascending the steps he rang imperatively. '

The liveried servant who answered the summons extended his silver card-tray ; but the gray-haired stranger, with traveldusty, broad-brimmed hat and shabby valise, walked boldly in —a free breath of Western civilisation, seeming as much out of place in the rose-perfumed Moorish hall, under its dimly burning jewelled lamps and rare cashmerian hangings as much out of place, but perhaps not more than the Louis XVlth chair just added to its wealth of furnishings. "I am Mr. Marvin," ho said, simply . "I suppose I've arrived earlier than they expected. When: is Mrs. Marvin and the children .'"

■'They're h'll hout, &ir," answered James, regarding his unknown master suspiciously, and for the first time in his trained lite doubtful how to act. '• And my Margaret —where is Miss Margaret ?"

" When 'c sez that," explained James to his companions of the servants' hall " then I know 'c were the master ; it were only a real blootnin' face whose face could run soft into a look like that, when 'c sez : ' Take me to 'er instantly.' "

That day had been for Margaret one of unusual suffering ; and the Fraulein, tenderost of sympathisers, had passed every unclaimed moment at her bedside, telling her lovely old German tales and legends, full of the rush of the castle-bordered Ebine and the hoarse tree-voices of elf-haunted forests ; and for the twentieth time repeating one of which the child never tired — a sweet story, running thus :

'■ Once there lived far away, in a tiny white cottage on the edge of a great brown wood, a dear little girl named Erma. Neighbours called her a ' joy child,' her nature was so full of sunshine and summer. Her long, thick braids of hair were silken soft and golden ; and her blue eyes always smiling until her mamma died, aud then life changed to tears." For after a short while her father married again"' (there Margaret always sighed) — '-a woman without heart or religion ; who, unloving herself, envied Erma every sign of aifeotion others bestowed upon her. When her own fretful little girl was born she grew still more cruel, imposing upon Erma all household tasks, besides the care of her baby bister.

'" Through the longest, hardest day she never murmured ; but every night, up in the lonely, dark attic, she s.obbed herself to sleep. And once, as she lay praying there, she- heard a voice calling, ' Erma, Erma !' softly as her mother used to call ; and. lifting 1 her head, she beheld a figure all in white standing by her, and the darkness became light.

'■ ' Don't go away ! ' she cried aloud. ' I'm not afraid,— not afraid, though I never saw you before.'

" ' Dear,' replied the vision, ' you never saio me before, but I am always as close to you as now. Every soul has its guardian angel ; I am yours. Many a time, as we walked together, I have caught your hand in mine to keep you from falling, and whispered words of good counsel. This night lam permitted by the Blessed Mother to reveal myself to you as a reward for your meekness and piety.'

" ' And where is my own mamma ? Do you know her, too ?' asked Erma.

'■ ' I see her every day.' responded the angel. ' She is near hoaven, but has not yet entered. She waits for you.' '• ' Oh, can I not go to her now V '• ' Such is not God's will, doar. Be patient, and when your wings are done I will come ior you.'

"' My wings ?' echoed the child, wonderingly. ' Shall I ever have wings, broad, and white and beautiful like yours .' And when will they be done .''

'"My child." replied the angel, ' the two wings on which every soul some day mounts to heaven are labour and prayer. Each time that you have performed an act of self-denial or devotion, returned good for evil, gentleness for harshness, you add a long, soft, white feather to your wings. 'Ihus it is that some finish theirs sooner than others'; for a host of sweet deeds may be crowded into a few years, if every day be filled with them. That is the consolation those mothers have whose darlings have gone from them while their lives were yet rosy with the hues of morning. They can look up and cay, '• Aly child was good and pure and beautiful of soul ; her wings were finished before we thought, and she has flown to God." ' •' 'Ah. dear angel !' murmured Erma, cla-ping her little hands. — 'dear anuel. please hi In me to get mine lim-hed soon.' ••'I w.ll try. \u\v good-night! Sleeping and waking, clear, f jrget not that 1 w.mli in er tlue e\er.'

'■ And with ih< -c woid-. Mniliug, the vision faded. But a great hippine -. ab'ded Imm that night in linn.is heart, and she tnought: ' I'eih.ips it 1 told little Katniiawh.it »n/ guaidian angel sml she woald not gneve h in so umstauJy.' But the naughty child would not lision. Thu-> sevi r.il year- p:isM d. Erma s gentleness won its due tnbut> j ot lo\e from all save the cruel step-mother and Katrina. Oirj wiinty wintry day Erma. returning lroin the forest with a load of fagot, s'n: had been sent to gather, saw scarlet tongues ot flame and 1 nig, gray plume- ot some darting torth trom the cottage eaves aud waving high above them : while the mother— shrieking to the as-emhlnig neighbours : ' Save her. — save her, my little Katrina !" — pointed to a white child-face at the upper window. Dropping her burden. Erma iiew forward : and, unheeded in the tumult, disappeared through the smoke outpowering from the open door. '• Katrina was unharmed, but dear Erma lay dying. ' Ble-ecd child !' said the priest : -you have given jour lite for Katrina's."

"•Ah, Father ! lam so glad, — so glad !' murmured Erma. • She is not ready to die, you know; I'm afraid she hasn't any wings. Fray God that she may live to bu an old. old woman.' •• As her eyes closed m death she beheld the shining lace of her guardian angil, the sweet \ dice haying: 'But. Erma dear, your wings are done. How broad and white and beautiful they ure ' I have come to affix them so, so. True ot heart. " pure of heart, ' in another moment you '• shall s.e God.'

•' Thank you, Fraulein darling — thank you !" said Margaret, tightening the thin hand's cLi-p. " i love that story ; but what can I ever do to get any pretty white feathers tor my wings .' Confined to my bed or chair, ' ju-t a trouble,' 1 can't save anybody's lite or help anybody or make anybody happy — why, listen ! that sounds like papa's voice in the hall. Hub ooait ! U papa,— my own, my dear papa !"

Mr. Marvin was kneeling by his daughter's bed, her arms around him, her cheek against his ; and a*-, looku £ backward with filled eyes, the Fraulein glided swiltly from the room, she heard him sob :

"O God, my Margaret, my helpless child ! What will become of you .' Your papa is ruinec, ruined, ruined '"'

(To le continued.)